


Today

by PipMer



Series: Declarations [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mild Angst, Misunderstandings, Romance, declarations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:41:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been a year since Sherlock promised that John would one day get his declarations, both public and private.  Today, John plans to set them on the road towards one of them, at least.  </p><p>Sequel to "Someday", although it functions as a standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Today

**Author's Note:**

> This is a follow-up to [Someday](http://archiveofourown.org/works/911665), although it can easily be read as a standalone. I would recommend reading that one first, just to experience the full effect. 
> 
>  
> 
> Many thanks to batik, who was kind enough to beta the first part of this and give me helpful suggestions. Also thanks to prettybirdy979 for the final read-through and encouragement.

 

 

 

John eyes himself critically in the mirror as he adjusts his tie, the one Sherlock says brings out his eyes.   He wouldn’t bother with one at all if it wasn’t for that fact.  He hates ties almost as much as his partner does.  But he wants – no, _needs –_ to look, act and feel his best tonight.  He desperately tries… with little success…  to quash the fluttery feeling in his belly that hasn’t left since he’s made this decision, all of forty-eight hours ago.

 

It’s been a year to the day since Sherlock promised that someday, John would get his declarations, both public and private.  Today, John plans to set them on the road towards one of them, at least.  He slips a nervous finger into his pocket and strokes the object nestled there.

 

He takes one last look at himself, and nods to his pale reflection.  He gathers up his courage and steps out of the bedroom to make his way down to the sitting room.

 

He slows his steps as he recognises the deep baritone voice droning in an indistinct rumble.  He winces to himself, hoping Lestrade hasn’t called with a case. Sherlock promised that he was all his tonight, but John would never stop him from taking an urgent case.  He’s brought up short just shy of the landing as the rumble clarifies into words.

 

“You do realise that I love you, yes?”

 

John blinks, momentarily stunned.  Who in the world could Sherlock _possibly_ be talking to? John’s never heard him say those words to anybody, _ever._ Perhaps he’s on the phone with his mum.  John has yet to meet her, and Sherlock rarely mentions her, but she’s the only person with whom John can imagine Sherlock having this conversation.

 

“No, that’s not quite right.”  Dramatic sigh.  “I have to figure this out.  The situation has dragged on for far too long as it is.  It’ll just hurt him more if I continue to delay.  I need to put a stop to it, today.”

 

John swallows, anxiety coiling hot and heavy in his gut.  He’s starting to have a very bad feeling about this.

 

“No.  I’ve made up my mind.  I just need to face the music, stop being a coward and tell him.”

 

The sound of frantic pacing reaches John’s ears, and his panic ratchets up ten notches. This is not a good thing, not a good thing at all.

 

“This will all work out for the best.  He deserves far better than what I’ve offered him so far; he deserves someone who’s actually able to tell him what he needs to hear.”

 

The pacing pauses, as if Sherlock is focussing all his energy on listening to whatever is being said to him on the other end of the line.  John holds his breath in trepidation.  The pause seems to go on forever, and John feels himself going light-headed without realising it’s from lack of oxygen.

 

Sherlock’s voice lowers in register and volume.  “I love _you_.”

 

Those words are said softly, but John can make out the subtle emphasis.   He feels like he’s just been punched in the gut as all the air in his lungs rushes out in one violent _whoosh._

 

A throat clears.  This time, the words are louder and carry a sense of strength and confidence.

 

“I love you.”

 

The words echo into the silence of the flat.  John can both feel and hear the rapid staccato of his heart.  He feels the sweat trickle down his neck, even though the flat is no warmer than 20 degrees.  He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to force himself to wake up from this nightmare.

 

“No, that’s not right; that’s not right at all, you can do better than that,” an irritated voice announces.  “Don’t be an idiot.  You’re trying too hard, just be natural.  John will understand.”

 

At the mention of his name, John’s eyes pop open and his head jerks up.

 

“Don’t make a big production of it, just say it as if you’re calling his attention to a mundane fact.  Like, ‘You’re an idiot,’ or ‘You’re short.’   I.  Love.  You.  There.  That’s not so hard, is it?”

 

John’s eyes widen as realisation finally settles over him.  It’s all he can do to restrain the snort of laughter that threatens to burst forth.  He peeks his head around the corner of the landing.

 

Sherlock is staring at himself intently in the mirror hanging over the fireplace.  There’s no phone in his hand.  Both his hands are occupied with the prayer position under his chin.  He wears the blood red shirt that John got him last Christmas, with his best black suit.  His right eyebrow rises as he studies his reflection.  He shakes his head minutely before placing his hands on his hips and raising his chin.

 

“I _love_ you,” he tries, and cringes at the result.  He tries again.

 

“ _I_ love you _.  I_ love _you_.  Oh _bloody hell_ – “

 

Sherlock whirls around, clearly frustrated.  His eyes catch John’s; they widen in surprise and he instantly stills.  The flush appearing on his face almost matches the colour of his shirt.

 

“John.  I – I didn’t see you there.”

 

John can’t resist, he just can’t.  “Obviously,” he smirks.  A giggle involuntarily escapes, and he claps a hand over his mouth to prevent further hilarity from breaking through.

 

Hurt flashes across Sherlock face for an instant before he schools his expression into a scowl.  He immediately averts his eyes, refusing to look at John as he stiffly brushes past him on his way to the bathroom.

 

“Sherlock, I wasn’t laughing – “

 

The bathroom door slams in the face of John’s explanation, cutting it off at the knees. John’s mouth clamps shut.  He’s not sure which feeling is most prevalent: amusement or irritation.  He sighs as he walks to the door.  He presses his forehead onto the smooth, hard oak.

 

“Sherlock.  I wasn’t making fun of you.  It was just… very unexpected.  If you want to know the truth, I actually thought it was quite sweet.”

 

A disgusted snort sounds from the other side of the door.  John smiles.  He places the palm of his hand next to the doorknob.

 

“Can I come in?  Please?”

 

“Of course you _can._ It’s not locked, after all.”

 

John suppresses another giggle.  Honestly, how he finds Sherlock’s ridiculousness both amusing and endearing is beyond him, sometimes.  Most of the time he just goes with it, trusting in their connection.

 

John gently pushes the door open.  The sight that greets him makes his chest swell. Sherlock sits on the toilet, looking impossibly young and vulnerable.  He peers up at John through his perfectly coiffed fringe.

 

“I wanted it to be _perfect,_ John,” he pouts, tone infused with petulance.  “I was trying to get it _just right._ You’ve been waiting to hear it for so long, you deserved for it to be special.  And it was to be a surprise, too.  I had everything precisely timed; I was going to tell you during the cab ride between dinner and the theatre.”

 

John grins.  “That doesn’t sound like a very private declaration, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock glares at his flatmate.  “I wasn’t going to shout it from the rooftops, John!  I know how to be discreet.”

 

“You do?  Really.  Like you were discreet when you revealed our relationship to the Yard?”

 

Sherlock flushes.  “That was an instinctual response to you almost having been killed.”

 

John smiles and holds out his hand.  “Let’s continue this conversation in a more appropriate setting, yeah?”  Sherlock mouth tilts up minutely in response.  He places his cool hand in John’s warm one, and allows himself to be pulled into a standing position.  John throws him a fond look before he turns and leads him out into the sitting room.   John gently pushes him down onto the sofa before taking a seat in his own armchair.

 

They sit with their eyes locked for several minutes before Sherlock’s mouth twitches. John’s lips curl up in response, and before they know it they are rolling on the floor, holding their sides and tears streaming down their faces.  Boisterous cackles emanate from the doctor, while booming guffaws escape from the normally sedate detective. As they shift and move around, they end up pressed against each other, backs to the sofa.

 

Eventually, the laughter dies down and the moisture is wiped from their cheeks.  Their eyes shift to each other’s faces, and their gazes hold once again.    John lifts his hand and strokes Sherlock’s cheek.

 

“Were you going to tell me something?” he whispers.

 

Sherlock’s expression remains serious.  He opens his mouth – hesitates – then throws caution to the wind.

 

“Marry me?”

 

John’s eyes widen and his mouth drops open.

 

“John?”  Sherlock voice is soft and questioning, almost hesitant.

 

John blinks.  “That – actually, that was supposed to be _my_ question.  Tonight.  At the restaurant.”  He reaches into his pocket and slowly brings out the object within.  He dangles it in front of Sherlock’s face, relishing the surprise etched there.

 

“If you said yes, then in lieu of a ring, I was going to give you these.”  He reverently places the dog tags around Sherlock’s neck, patting the circular disks as they settle on his partner’s chest.  “A public symbol of what you are to me.  A public declaration, if you will.”  His eyes rise to meet Sherlock’s.

 

“But since you beat me to it,  I’ll have to be the one who answers.  Yes, Sherlock.  Of course I’ll marry you.”

 

Sherlock breaks out into the widest grin ever to grace his face, luminous and brilliant.  He grabs John’s face and pulls him in for a heady, sloppy kiss.  When he pulls back, his eyes are shining with something more than just clarity.

 

“I love you,” Sherlock states, emphatically and unequivocally.  “I love you, and I want the whole world to know.”  His hand drifts to the disks around his neck.  “I will find something for you to display as well.” He lowers his voice as his face takes on a heated expression.  “In fact, I will do that first thing tomorrow morning, after I’ve finished claiming you in other ways.”

 

John’s eyes shine just as brightly, and his grin threatens to break his face in two.  “I love you, too.  And hold that thought, because we have dinner and theatre reservations, remember?  Mycroft went to no small effort to pull some strings for us, and we don’t want to insult him by blowing off the entire evening – do we?”

 

Sherlock pretends to consider the question.  “I suppose not.  After all, we do owe him for the blowtorch incident.”

 

John grimaces  “Yes. Yes we do.”  He reluctantly stands up, bringing Sherlock with him.  He raises Sherlock’s hand to his lips and brushes a kiss across the knuckles.  “A most memorable evening awaits us, love.  And at the end of it….”  John graces Sherlock with a look that perfectly conveys the twin emotions of desire and affection.  “Well.  Only these four walls will be aware of what happens then.”

 

A barely perceptible shudder goes through Sherlock – but John notices.  He mentally gives himself an at-a-boy pat on the back.  He throws a wink at his flatmate and laces their fingers together.   Sherlock smiles shyly before raising their clasped hands to eye level and giving a firm squeeze.   John nods, their mutual intent successfully communicated.  They have only held hands in public once before, in the back of a cab after John’s close call a year ago.  This day is proving to be a milestone in more ways than one.

 

“Someday “ is no longer some nebulous, uncertain time far in the future.  It has morphed into something immediate and tangible.  Today marks a new era in the partnership of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson - flatmates and colleagues, best friends and partners, and soon to be husbands.

  
They grab their coats and walk out of their home hand in hand.


End file.
